


Out of the Blue

by MsKingBean89



Series: All the Young Dudes [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16683955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsKingBean89/pseuds/MsKingBean89
Summary: Written as a bit of a bonus/gift for everyone who enjoyed reading All the Young Dudes, but specifically for everyone who wanted to know what happened to Grant, my OC from that fic.In two parts, because you know what I'm like.Set in 2016.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aridnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aridnie/gifts).



> Thank you aridnie for the suggestion! I hope you like it :)

April 2016, Brighton.

“Oh my god, my hero! Do you have any idea how much I love you?” Marcus beamed at Grant as if he was an oasis in a desert. Which he sort of was, at that moment. 

“Skimmed milk, no sugar,” Grant grinned, squeezing through the crowd and setting down the cup of coffee on the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Busy!” Marcus nodded, lifting the coffee to his lips and taking a few grateful gulps, “I know I’ve got some staff in here somewhere, but I’ve only seen customers for hours.”

“Jamie should be here in a bit, I made him promise.”

“Oh good, Atif and Jon are in the back doing stock, if you want to say hello? How was your morning?”

“Yeah, fine. Paperwork. Rather be here.” Grant looked around at the packed shop. 

Record store day still felt pretty new to Grant, but he was all for it, if it meant the shop was this busy. At least their finances would stay in the black this month; Grant didn't think he would ever live to see the day that record shops stopped making money, but that was the twenty-first century, for you.

Plenty of music shops were closing up for good, but they had no plans to. The place was too special to Marcus - he had opened it with his partner, John, in the late eighties. After John died, years before Grant was on the scene, Marcus had sworn he would keep it open as a memorial. That was one of the things Grant loved about Marcus. He followed through on promises, even if they were soppy ones.

He and Grant had met in 1999, on a hugely embarrassing blind date. They had a mutual friend who had been trying to get them together for ages, apparently. Grant was apprehensive at first, he had been single for years by that point, and it suited him - but he gave it a go, and thank god he did, because Marcus was, in a word, perfect. Italian looks (on his mother's side) and Icelandic blue eyes. Big hands. He was a bit younger than Grant, but age hadn't been a problem. On the date they'd talked about music and the eighties, and losing someone you loved so much. And then they'd gone home and groped on the couch like a pair of kids. In short, it was love at first sight. And Grant did not usually believe in that sort of nonsense.

He gave Marcus a peck on the cheek then went to poke his head into the tiny stockroom, “All right, boys?”

Two teenagers were sitting on the floor, one sorting through a pile of receipts, scratching his head, the other stamping ‘Buy 1 Get 1 Free!’  labels onto vinyl sleeves. 

“Hiya dad!” Atif looked up, grinning at him. 

Grant’s heart swelled - it did any time one of his boys called him ‘dad’. They didn’t have to, he never asked them to. But he and Marcus had been fostering Atif for two years now, since he was fourteen, and he’d been so much trouble in the beginning that Grant really felt like he’d earned the title. Jon had only been with them for a month, and was a bit younger than Atif, so he just looked up and gave a nod. Grant smiled at him. Jon was shy, and very sweet, until he lost his temper. 

“Having fun?”

“Oh yeah, it’s a proper laugh-riot back here.” Atif said, cheekily. Grant laughed; he loved teenagers, they never bullshitted you. 

“Keep up the good work - you can stop for lunch at one, come out to the front and I’ll spot you some cash.”

He left them to their work. They liked that; being trusted to be left alone, to supervise themselves. Grant usually found they worked a lot harder. 

When he returned to the shop floor, Jamie had showed up and taken over the tills. Marcus was standing behind him, on the phone, one hand over his other ear to cover the din. Grant gave Jamie a pat on the back, and got a scowl in return. Jamie was seventeen, and nearly too old to be fostered. He’d lived with them for a few weeks a year since he was twelve, and each time he seemed to have a new set of issues. But he respected them, mostly, and generally did as he was told.

Grant helped Jamie, taking over bagging records as they were charged, offering a friendly smile as he handed each bag over. 

Marcus finished his phone call and tapped Grant on the shoulder, “Babe, that was Janine, in the office.”

“Gawd,” Grant sighed, “Another emergency case?”

“‘Fraid so - six year old. They found him at home by himself - can’t reach his parents. Could be a few nights.”

“Six is a bit young,” Grant frowned, still bagging records. “They know we’ve got three in already.”

“He can sleep on the z-bed in your office. Or put Jamie in with--”

“I ain’t moving rooms.” Jamie grunted, not even looking up from the till. Marcus and Grant shared a look. Grant shrugged,

“Z-bed it is, then. D’you want me to go?”

“I will, I’ve got the car keys. You ok holding down the fort?”

“With Jamie here? Absolutely,” Grant grinned, patting Jamie on the back again. The teenager shrugged him off, but Grant saw him smile, too. 

They got on for a bit, the card machine was on the blink, but Jamie was the only one who knew how to sort it out anyway. (He'd set up their Wi-Fi, too, last year, and Grant still had no idea where the router was.) It was a very pleasant way to spend a Saturday, he thought happily. Spending time with the boys, enjoying the madness of two hundred hipsters down from London filling up the shop. It was like Carnaby street used to be - noisy and colourful and full of young people. Then, out of nowhere--

“ _ Very funny, Lupin! _ ” A girl's voice giggled near the back of the shop. 

Grant froze, all of the hairs on his arm standing up. Jesus Christ, it was like someone had walked over his grave. He shook himself - he didn’t want to think about graves. But that name! It was hardly common… he peered across the shop, but it was too busy to make anyone out. He’d left his glasses at home - Marcus was always on at him to sort out laser surgery, but when would Grant have the time? It was awful, getting old.

“Oi,” Jamie was nudging him with the toe of his trainer, “Oi! Are you listening to me?!”

“Sorry mate, what?” Grant shook his head,

“I said can you take over? I need a piss.”

“Yeah, go for it.” Grant nodded, still a bit distracted. The teenager rolled his eyes and plodded off into the back room, muttering something about Grant going senile,

Grant cleared his thoughts and smiled at the next customer, “Find everything ok?”

It was far too busy for Grant to start reminiscing, which was good, because Grant tried to avoid looking back, if he could. Best to keep moving forward, that’s what he told his boys. 

He served the next five or six customers with ease, keeping an ear out for any commotion in the stockroom, and ticking over a list for the new boy in the back of his mind. They definitely had clean bedding on hand - you had to, in foster care, anyone could show up at any minute. It was the clothes he was worried about - depending on how big the kid was, it might be a struggle to find some clean jeans that would fit him.

He  made his mind up to send Atif and Jon to the big Tesco on their lunch break, to see if they could buy a few bits there. Mind you, if he did that he’d have to be sure to make a very clear list, and ask for a receipt. Grant didn’t mind them skimming a bit off the top for things like sweets or snacks, but Atif had a bit of a history of pocketing cash for slightly less legal things. It had been a while since the kid’s last run in with the law, but Grant was ever cautious, because---

“Just these, please.” The next person in the queue slid three records across the counter, and Grant’s heart skipped a beat. Those long fingers, knobbly at the joints. The tall, lanky frame, like he’d shot up ten inches one night and wasn’t used to it; the adam’s apple, the green-grey eyes. Grant knew it was completely mad, but he couldn’t help himself,

“Remus!”

But this wasn’t Remus - how could it be? For one thing, Remus Lupin had been dead for almost two decades. For another, this man was far too young - barely an adult. And he had bright blue hair, and Remus Lupin would never in a million years dye his hair - it would call too much attention to him. 

“What did you call me?” The young man gave him a weird look. Grant’s mouth opened and closed a few times, before he came to his senses.

“Sorry!” He said, “Thought you were someone else - been a long day! Lets ring these up, shall we…” he picked up the records, feeling hot and cold all over. 

Luckily, the blue haired kid didn’t question him again - his pretty blonde girlfriend was tugging on his arm, so they left fairly quickly. Grant couldn’t bring himself to look closely at the boy again; it was much too eerie.

Jamie reappeared at his side, along with the other two. 

“Can we go for lunch now?” Atif was asking. 

Grant only half heard him, it was as if everything in his brain had suddenly slowed down, and all he could hear was  _ ‘What did you call me?’ _ , and all he could see was that skeptical, put off face, which Grant knew so well it almost hurt. 

“Dad? Oi! Dad?” Atif waved a hand in front of Grant’s face.

“What? Leave off, you little toerag.” He chuckled affectionately.

“Are you ok?” The three boys were looking at him strangely, “You’ve gone all pale and funny.”

“Have I?” Grant raised a hand to run through his hair - only he was pretty much bald, now, and all he felt was his own clammy skin. 

“Probably the heat,” Atif said, “d’you want some water?”

“Cheers,” Grant nodded, gratefully.

“I’ll do the till,” Jamie said, suddenly, pushing him out of the way, “Go and sit down, G-man.”

* * *

“You ok?” Marcus asked, yawning, as they got into bed that evening. 

It was almost eleven, but Marcus had been stuck at the police station ages while they sorted out the new kid - Kieron. They’d both missed dinner, which disrupted the whole household, and by the time they got back Grant was in the middle of breaking up world war three - Atif and Jamie were constantly arguing over over who’s turn it was on the playstation. 

“Knackered, but what else is new,” Grant replied. He was sitting up with his glasses on, reviewing Kieron’s notes. “They haven’t put his bloody school on here, how are we supposed to get him in on Monday?!”

“I’ll ring Janine in the morning,” Marcus yawned again. He lay down and closed his eyes. 

“Did he go down all right?”

“Yeah, but he’s scared of the dark, I reckon.” Marcus commented, “I left the lamp on and said it was in case he wants to read. Anyway, are you ok?”

“Yeah, I said I was,” Grant murmured, still leafing through the scraps of paper which made up Kieron’s case file. He always went through them cover to cover, and more often than not they were like this; stapled and paperclipped together, scrawled handwriting, missing signatures. It drove Grant mad, no wonder so many kids fell through the gaps.

“Atif said you had a funny turn, at the shop.”

“What? No,  I was just… ah, it’s nothing.”

“Do you need a break?” Marcus rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow.

“Nope, I’m loving life.”

“Babe, you do take on a lot, you know - I know it makes you happy, but at your--”

“Say ‘at your age’ and I’ll stab you with this biro.” Grant threatened, taking off his glasses and putting the papers on the bedside table, “I feel as fit as I did at twenty. Fitter, actually, I was an alcoholic at twenty.”

“Mmm, and now you’re just a workaholic.” Marcus said. Grant gave him a look, and Marcus raised his hands, “I know, I know, the boys don’t count as work. But still, if you’re coming over all faint in the middle of the day--”

“Is that what he said?” Grant laughed, “The little drama queen! Gawd, I just thought I saw someone, that’s all, gave me a surprise. Anyway it wasn’t them, I didn’t have my glasses on.”

“Who?”

“Hm?”

“Grant. Who did you think you saw?”

Grant sighed. He slid down in the bed, and rubbed his tired eyes. “Remus.”

Marcus didn’t say anything. Grant opened his eyes and turned to look. He had a face on, like he was trying to come up with the most understanding and responsible thing to say. 

“See, I told you it was nothing. Just a stupid mistake. Remember that time you told me you saw Stephen Fry in Asda, and it turned out it was just a very tall lesbian?”

Marcus snorted. “Ok, fair enough. Still, that must have been a bit weird?”

“Yeah, it was. But it was just a mistake.”

“What was it about them? The person you mistook for him, I mean?”

Marcus didn’t know what Remus looked like. This wasn’t Grant’s fault; he had no photos of their time together, they were still at the flat, as far as he knew. And nothing would convince Grant to go back there. Added to this, Grant was terrible at describing people, so all Marcus knew was ‘I dunno, taller than me, curly hair.’

“Oh, just something about him.” Grant said, unhelpfully.

“And it really shocked you that much?”

“I s'pose so.”

There was a loud thumping against the wall opposite. Marcus sighed, “Jon and Atif are fighting again.”

“They just play wrestle.”

“Yeah, but they’re not little kids any more, they'll come through the ceiling one of these days.”

“I'll go and have a word, I need a glass of water anyway.” Grant said, getting out of bed. He stepped into his slippers and pulled on one of their dressing gowns. 

“Come to bed before midnight?” Marcus said.

“Do my best.”

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind himself. The landing light was still on, and the bathroom light too, door wide open. He sighed and turned both off, before looking in on the second double bedroom.

Atif and Jon were lying sideways across their beds, fully dressed still, kicking each other across the gap.

“Oi!” Grant hissed, “Pack it in, you two! You'll bring the house down.”

“Sorry,” Atif gave him winning smile, “Just tiring ourselves out.”

“If you've got that much energy I've got five loads of laundry you can do in the morning.” Grant returned. “Now get your pyjamas on and go to sleep!”

“Night, dad.” Atif said, kicking off his trainers.

“Goodnight, Mr Chapman,” Jon smiled shyly, following suit.

“Goodnight, boys. Love you both.”

He closed the door and went downstairs next, to the kitchen. He ran the tap and waited for it to get cold, then filled a glass. He didn't go straight back upstairs, he wasn't tired enough yet - he was restless. He needed to have a proper think about that kid in the shop earlier, but he also wanted to pretend it had never happened. Which was a trademark Remus Lupin move. 

Grant leaned against the kitchen counter and realised he had not thought about Remus in a very long time. Maybe even a whole month. He could see the moon through the kitchen window, beyond the apple tree in their back garden. A shining silver crescent - would have been no bother for Remus, that. 

Grant wasn’t sure if it was waxing or waning, he’d stopped tracking that years ago. There were still some pretty decent memories attached to it, though. Not many people had been lucky enough to shag a werewolf the night before the full moon - he’d still be thinking about  _ those  _ nights when they packed him off to the old folks home. 

The cat wandered in and rubbed against his legs. He bent down to scratch behind her ear, and she purred appreciatively. 

He tidied up the kitchen a bit. That was supposed to be Jamie’s job, but he clearly wasn't going to get to it. He would only be with them another week, anyway, and this happened every time. Jamie’s behaviour always slipped the closer he got to going home. Grant had tried to talk to him about it, find out what was troubling him, but he just clammed up.

So Grant did the cleaning up, just to keep himself busy. He piled up the plates from dinner and stacked them in the sink, tied up the overfull bin bag and replaced it, put away the mugs on the draining board. 

Kieron could have Jamie’s room, when he left, Grant thought to himself - depending how long Kieron would be with them. They didn’t usually get young kids, mostly problem teenagers. Marcus said that when the police had brought him in he hadn’t had any shoes, and they’d had to incinerate the rest of his clothes. Neglect. If there was anything that  _ really  _ made Grant furious…

But you had to put those feelings aside, and focus on the kid. Because the kid doesn’t see it that way; kids will go along with anything, if they’re used to it. The trick was to reinvent their idea of normal. If Grant and Marcus could give Kieron a bedroom, at the very least, then that was a start. 

As he closed the fridge, a postcard which had been stuck on with a magnet fell, and he had to bend and reach underneath the appliance to fish it back out. It was from Nick - one of their kids from long ago, grown up now, and travelling around Australia. There were other postcards, letters and photos stuck to their fridge - kids who remembered them fondly, who wanted to stay in touch. Marcus read them out to Grant when he was feeling low. “Look at all the good you do!” he would say.

It worked, most of the time, but sometimes he still felt worthless. That had been  _ his  _ normal, once, and shaking off that stuff had to be a constant effort. 

Remus’s letters weren’t on the fridge, of course. They were far too precious. 

Grant rubbed his eyes and sighed, exasperated. He was getting nowhere; he was just going around in circles. Time for bed, then. He topped up his water, flicked off the light, and began to climb the stairs.

He noted with satisfaction that there was no light - or noise - coming from under the door of Jon and Atif’s room. They were good boys, really. However, as he passed the study, he did hear something. A sobbing, wet gasping sound. He pushed the door ajar to look inside.

Kieron was sitting up in bed, arms around his knees, eyes wide open. The little reading lamp was on, illuminating Grant’s desk, the ancient desktop PC, the stacks of paperwork and the locked filing cabinet. It wasn’t a very nice room for a little boy, but it would only be temporary.

“All right there, mate?” Grant said, softly. 

Kieron stared up at him, his cheeks wet. He looked younger than six, Grant wanted to pick him up and rock him like a baby, but it was best to hold off on physical affection, at least until they had the measure of each other.

Grant entered, leaving the door a little bit open, making sure Kieron could see the exit, if he wanted to leave. “Scary in here, innit? Sorry you got stuck with the little room.”

Kieron didn’t say anything, just watched him. Grant raised the glass of water,

“Want me to get you a drink?”

Kieron shook his head, clutching the duvet tightly against his body. He was wearing an old t-shirt of Marcus’s, which was massive on him, but ok for sleeping. They’d get some proper clothes in the morning, if Janine said they could.

“Warm enough?”

Kieron nodded.

“Just can’t sleep, then?”

Another nod.

“Me neither,” Grant said, conspiratorially, “Tell you what, will you let me sit in here for a bit? Marcus likes the light off when he’s sleeping, but I hate the dark.”

“Ok.” Kieron consented, unclenching just a little bit. He’d had his hair cut very short, the poor love. They didn’t do that anymore unless they really had to.

Grant sat in the armchair. It had belonged to John, Marcus’s partner. He’d been older than Marcus by quite a bit, based on the pictures Grant had seen. One of those intellectual old queens who liked big leather bound books and wore silk scarfs and a bit of rouge so they didn’t look too old.

“Do I have to live here forever?” Kieron asked, his voice very small and high.

“We don’t know yet. But just for a little bit.” Grant hated not being able to give kids the answers they deserved. He tried to always be very honest. 

“Will they send me to jail?”

“No, mate, you’re not in any trouble.”

“Who are the big boys? Are you their daddy?”

“No, me and Marcus just take care of them, because their mummies and daddies can’t. Like you.” He smiled.

“Why do you do that?”

“Because when I was very little, my mummy wasn’t very good at taking care of me, either. And I got in lots of trouble, all the time, and it wasn’t very nice. So I want to help other boys, now.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“I know, mate, it’s not home. Like I said, you might not be here very long.”

“No, I like this house,” Kieron said, “But I don’t like this room.”

“Oh I see!” Grant chuckled. “Why’s that, then?”

“In there.” Kieron pointed under the desk. There was nothing there but darkness and shadows. “There might be a dog and it might bite me.”

“Oh, of course,” Grant nodded, as if this was a very reasonable assumption (which it was, to a six year old), “Let’s see…” he got up and went to the stack of drawers in the corner. They were on casters, and wheeled easily over to fit neatly underneath the desk, filling the empty space. “That better?”

Kieron nodded. He lay down, cautiously. Grant sat down in the armchair again, yawning.

“I used to be scared of dogs too.”

“Are you still?”

“Nah. I lived with a werewolf, and he cured me.”

“Really?!” Kieron’s eyes went big again, no longer afraid. Grant felt a rush of affection for the sweet little face. He loved kids.

“Really,” he confirmed, “And let me tell you, he was one of the nicest people you could possibly meet, and not scary at all. He liked chocolate, and eggs for breakfast, and reading books and watching telly, and he never ever bit anyone.”

“Wow.” 

“Think you can sleep, now?”

“I’ll try.” Kieron said, resolutely.

“Good lad.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Of course you’re not.”

“Sometimes I’m very naughty…” Kieron stretched and yawned, his eyes closing.

“I don’t think you’re naughty. I think you’re a very good boy who’s had a very hard time.” Grant said, his heart aching. Kieron seemed to smile a bit.

Not long after that, the boy fell asleep. Grant stayed for a bit, just in case he woke up again. They’d move him into a proper room tomorrow, he decided; Jamie would just have to put up with it. 

Remus had come up again. For the hundredth time that day, it seemed.  _ Bloody hell, _ Grant thought to himself,  _ we are in a nostalgic mood, aren’t we?  _ As he wasn’t sleeping, he thought he may as well give into it. He leaned down to the bottom of the bookcase, very slowly, so as not to disturb Kieron, and pulled out a shoebox from the lowest shelf. Opening it in his lap, he bit his lip. All his Remus stuff.

Not very much; really just a few letters, and some scribbled down addresses and phone numbers; the takeaway menu from their favourite Chinese restaurant, and a book of matches from Remus’s first gay bar. 

He pulled the first letter from its envelope. The spindly handwriting was so familiar, and yet so strange. This one was from not so long after they parted ways.

****

_ Grant, _

_ I hope you are well. It feels silly writing that, but it's true. I really, really hope you are well. Better than well. _

_ Things are busy here. I can't say very much, as you know, but I am ok, and Sirius too. We've spent more time with Harry, which has been great. We had to move, temporarily, so if you want to visit the flat, feel free, I know you have the key. Just so you know, I put your name on the deed. Call it insurance, or a gift, if you like. _

_ Do you have a nice flat? How's the job? I miss talking to you. _

_ Love, _

_ Remus. _

****

Yes, Grant remembered now. It was always love, in those letters. For the last two years, Remus wrote to him every month with love. In early 1998 the letters stopped, and Grant knew. Sometimes he thought he'd felt it, deep inside, like a thread being cut. Remus was dead. 

Sirius had already died, by then. Remus told him. After all that waiting, they hadn't had very long at all, in the end. He couldn't even write the words. It was crammed at the bottom of the page, like a postscript:  _ Sirius no longer with us. Gone.  _

Remus's letters grew sporadic after that, but he still sent brief notes, until the thread was cut.

At the time, Grant grieved by textbook. He  _ acknowledged  _ his emotions, he  _ took ownership  _ of his sorrow. When he wanted a drink he attended alcoholics anonymous meetings, and when he needed to talk he scheduled counselling. He took time for himself, but was careful not to withdraw. 

But it hurt, it hurt for a very long time. He threw himself into work, and that was enough for a good while. And then he met Marcus, and the sun came out at last.

The fact that Marcus had lost somebody as well helped a lot. It meant that the long silences weren't empty, and that the most difficult things did not need explaining. When Grant told Marcus about his desire to start fostering teenage boys with difficult home lives, Marcus was all for it, and that was how Grant knew he was the one.

They already had the big house; left by John, with a garden just right for playing football, and close to the seaside. Grant was able to do most of his work from home by then (by computer, like a bloody scientist!) and by the early noughties no one batted an eyelash at two gay men taking care of kids.

Well, almost no one. People were still dickheads a lot of the time, and there were sometimes comments.  _ Just bloody try me, _ Grant felt like saying to them,  _ I survived the seventies, there’s nothing you’ve got that can top what I’ve put up with. _

Nothing was ever perfect - nothing worth having. And his life  _ was _ , Grant told himself, every day - his life was worth everything, and he had bloody well earned it. He rarely ever thought about another kind of life, one with magic in it, one with...

He closed the shoebox. He was getting sore from sitting up, and Kieron was sound asleep. Grant got up to leave, and took the box with him. He wished he had a picture. Then he’d know if that kid in the shop actually  _ did  _ look like Remus, or if he was just getting old and silly. 

Marcus was snoring. Grant put the shoebox down on his bedside table and climbed in, giving his other half a playful shove, “Oi,” he whispered, “Roll over, you sound like a bloody bear.”

“Grrr.” Marcus grinned, sleepily, rolling over to envelope Grant in his arms, burying his face in Grant’s neck. Grant sighed, relaxing. “All right, love?” Marcus murmured.

“Oh yeah,” Grant squeezed him, “Perfect.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two! I hope you like it!
> 
> Warning for mentions of drug misuse.

“Hiya,” Grant walked into the quiet shop. It was almost closing time, the saturday after Record Store Day, and you could see the difference. One or two punters wandering about, flicking through the ‘50% Off’ stacks, but nowhere near the scrum there had been last week.

“All right?” Marcus smiled at him from behind the till. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“Had an inspection, it was only ‘round the corner, so I thought I’d pop in,” Grant came around to kiss him on the cheek. “We’ve got nothing in for dinner - came to see if you wanted me to get anything from Tesco.”

“I’d be happy with fish fingers and chips, to be honest, too wiped to cook tonight.”

“Fair enough - where’s Kieron?”

“In the back, with Mimi,” Marcus jerked his thumb at the back of the shop.

“I’ll just say a quick hello…” Grant went back into the little kitchen at the back. There was an old sofa in there, and Mimi - the saturday girl at the shop - was sitting at one end, scrolling on her phone, while Kieron was curled up asleep at the other end. “How is he?” Grant whispered.

Mimi looked up and smiled, “Fine, no problem at all. Cried a bit, when Marcus went back to the shop floor after lunch, but I think he’s just a bit clingy. I distracted him.”

“Nothing wrong with crying,” Grant went over and brushed the little boy’s hair out of his face, “He just needs a cuddle and a bit of reassuring, that’s all.”

Kieron cried often, and it was true, he had grown quite clingy over the past week. His teacher at the school they’d enrolled him in sent a note home after the first day - _Kieron is a bit weepy, something to keep an eye on. Sure he'll toughen up._ Marcus had had to stop Grant from marching right into the classroom to give the woman a piece of his mind. ‘Bit weepy’ - as if that was any surprise, after what the kid had been through! When were they going to stop pretending that little boys didn’t have feelings?

“Just give Marcus a shout, if you need anything, love,” He said to Mimi, “Thanks a lot - I know it’s not your job to babysit.”

“He’s a lot less work than the customers.” Mimi grinned. “And cuter. Heard anything from the lawyer, yet?”

“No, it’s early days.” Grant shook his head.

Kieron’s mother had been found two days after he’d been placed in foster care. She was barely an adult herself, and in no state to look after him, by the sounds of things. She’d been brought into A&E after an overdose, and though she was recovering, she’d apparently mentioned wanting to give him up.

It was Marcus who suggested following up on an adoption order. They’d thought about it more than once, over the years, but it was a difficult and drawn out process, so Grant didn’t like to get his hopes up. Still, they were taking steps, and if the mother really meant it, then their case worker thought it looked pretty positive.

He left Kieron sleeping, and went back out the front. “I’m off, then,” he said to Marcus, on his way,

“Oh yeah, before you go, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Marcus said, smirking, “You got a toy boy or something?”

“Eh?” Grant squinted, confused.

Marcus laughed, “Had some kid in looking for you. Didn't know your name, but he knew what you looked like, all right. He was tall, blue hair.”

Grant’s insides twisted. “No, doesn't ring a bell. One of Atif’s mates?”

“God knows,” Marcus shrugged. “See you at home, then?”

“Yeah, won’t be long.”

He left the shop, and started walking in the direction of the nearest Tesco. He didn’t feel right; he felt on edge. Why was the blue haired kid looking for him? Not that there weren’t plenty of young men with blue hair in Brighton, it could be a coincidence…

He bent his head and pushed forward. He’d just made up his mind to go to the chippy instead of Tesco, when he became aware of someone shouting from the other side of the street.

“Excuse me? Sir?!”

He stopped and turned.

“Excuse me? Excuse me?” The young man was jogging to catch up. It was him.

Grant stopped still, and straightened up as he approached. It was uncanny; he even had the same rangy gait as Remus had, and when they were face to face, he had the same shy smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to chase you,” the blue haired boy said. “Only I’ve been sitting in that cafe for five hours hoping you’d come back.”

He was ten times better spoken than the Remus Grant had grown up with, who was pure Essex even after years of private school.

“Can I help you?” Grant asked, warily.

“Er… you called me something, last week, in the shop.”

Grant didn’t know what to say.

“You called me Remus, didn't you?” The boy pushed.

“I'm sorry,” Grant said, wanting to back away, “I don't know what I was thinking--”

“He was my dad.”

 _Christ on a bike_. He had known, sort of, but he hadn't believed it. He didn't know what to say.

The kid scratched his head ( _oh, Remus)_ and looked bashful, “You knew him, right? You must have, I mean, how many Remus's are there? And… I've been told I look a bit like him.”

“You do,” Grant said, his mouth dry, “Spitting image.”

The boy's face lit up. His nose wasn't quite right, Grant noticed; it was a bit shorter, more turned up. That made it easier to look at him.

“Did you know my mum, too?”

That stung like a dart, he hadn't been expecting that. Obviously the kid had come from _somewhere_ , but still.

“No,” Grant shook his head. He tried to smile, “She must've been after my time.”

“Look, could we get a coffee or something?” The kid asked, earnestly, hands in his pockets, bobbing forward on the balls of his feet, “I know this is weird, but if you can tell me some stuff about my dad…”

“I don't know,” Grant said, “It was a long time ago.”

“That's even better,” the boy said, “Most people only knew him for a little while. Er... I don't know if you knew, but a lot of his school friends died…”

“I knew.” Grant said, grimly. “And he… When did he?”

“Oh. Um, 1998. The second of May.”

Grant nodded. That sounded about right. That was about when he'd started hurting. His eyes welled up, unexpectedly after all these years. The kid looked concerned,

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn't realise you hadn't known…”

“I knew,” Grant said wiping his eyes quickly, “I did know, I just… We hadn't seen each other in a while.”

“Can we go somewhere and talk? Please?”

How could Grant say no? They chose the beach in the end. It was anonymous enough, and a cold day, so no one would eavesdrop. They bought styrofoam cups of dishwater grey tea from a van on the promenade and sat on a big Victorian wrought iron bench looking out to sea. Grant made a quick call to Marcus on his mobile,

“Hiya darling, I've been called out for work… I won't be too late, will you be ok with the boys? Good. No. Yeah. All right, see you later - love you too.”

The kid waited patiently. Grant put away his phone, feeling sick for lying to Marcus, “Sorry, just checking in.”

“How many kids have you got?”

“Three, at the moment. We foster.”

“That's cool.”

“Sorry, I didn't even ask - what's your name?”

“Teddy - Edward, but everyone calls me Teddy.”

“Grant,” they shook hands.

He was wearing black skinny jeans, torn at the knees, his legs impossibly long. His bright blue hair piled up in loose curls on top of his head, the sides buzzed short, and he wore a red checkered shirt, buttoned up neatly. He was a lot trendier than Remus, who had dedicated himself to corduroy at an early age.

“How old are you - I mean, when were you born?”

“1998. I was only a baby when mum and dad…”

“God, your mum too? Sorry.”

“I'm proud of them.” Teddy said, raising his chin, slightly.

“I didn't know Remus had married…”

“It was a small wedding, there was only one picture,” Teddy reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He opened it and offered it to Grant.

Grant knew it would hurt, but he forced himself to look. One of those magic pictures, it moved. There was Remus, almost as Grant remembered him - only more tired, and more skinny. The smile was genuine, though. He was beaming out of the photograph, eyes crinkling the way they did when he was happy. The young woman - very young, actually - had a cute, impish face, and the same short upturned nose as Teddy. _How did that happen, my darling?_ Grant thought to himself, _She must have been something else._

Then he saw the date, on the back. 1997.

“They got married after Sirius died.” Grant said, half to himself. It made a bit more sense.

“Sirius Black?” Teddy sounded surprised, “Yeah I suppose they must've, I think he was killed in 1996... Did you know him, too?”

“Only a little bit.”

“I'm actually a bit related to him, through mum.”

Grant nodded, as if he found that interesting, but he just didn't know what to say. “So,” he said, a bit shakily, “What do you want to know?”

“Oh, anything!” Teddy said, eyes bright and keen. They had looked greeny-brown last week, but Grant was surprised to see that today they appeared much more blue - almost as bright as his hair. Trick of the light, maybe. “I hardly know anything about dad, I just want to know what he was like. People say he was quiet?”

“He could be.” Grant smiled, fondly, “But sometimes he was so loud. Even when he wasn't talking. And he liked talking, he was funny - jesus christ, he was so funny. And bloody clever. A bit of a smart arse, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, arrogant tosser. He was always right, too, drove me mad.”

His phone went off again, and he checked it quickly. It was nothing too important, a text from Marcus saying he was home.

“Sorry,” Teddy said, “Does your wife want you home?”

“Husband.” Grant said, without thinking, as he slipped his phone back in his pocket.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Teddy blinked, “I shouldn't have assumed.”

“S'fine,” Grant shrugged, he spent half his life making that correction, “And ‘e don't need me home just yet, it's ok.”

“So… where did you meet my dad? Muggle school?”

Blimey, he hadn't heard the m-word in while. “St Edmund’s,” he said, “That’s where your dad grew up, before he went off to that school. It was a place for boys who had problems. Behavioural stuff - did you know about it?”

“No,” said Teddy, looking troubled. “He didn't have parents either?”

Grant felt terrible - why did this fall to him? Why did he have to be the one to explain this bit of Remus? It was just typical, he always had to clean up the mess.

“His dad died… killed himself, when Remus was little. His mum couldn’t cope, so he got packed off to… there was nothing _wrong_ with him, understand,” Grant explained, quickly, “I reckon he was only there because of… you knew what else he was?”

“He was a werewolf, I did know that.” Teddy nodded, seriously.

“Right,” Grant nodded, relieved, “Right well, of course he needed to be somewhere secure. Anyway, that's where we met. I was there for a summer while he was back from school. Er… I wanna say it was seventy-five.”

“Ok so you didn’t know him very long, then…?”

“We lived together, too.” Grant said, quickly. “We shared a flat, in London. In the eighties.”

There, it was said, and the kid could take what he wanted from it.

Teddy looked at him for a while. “I didn’t know he lived in London. Before he met mum, I mean.”

“Yeah. Twelve years.”

“Oh…” Teddy looked out to the concrete grey sea. “Sorry, it's weird, I forget… see, dad was older than mum, by quite a bit. I forget that he had all that time before he met her.”

“Of course.” Grant said. He understood. For a kid Teddy's age, the world only began when you were born; parents didn’t have private lives.

Teddy was quiet for a bit, thinking hard. He looked younger than Remus had at that age - but there were myriad reasons for that. Remus had started going grey at fifteen, and even without the monthly beast rearing its head, he’d had a difficult life. Teddy’s smooth, lightly freckled face didn’t have any worry lines in it. Grant took some comfort from that, hoping it meant that he’d had a carefree childhood. The sort of childhood kids deserved to have.

“Did he have a job?” Teddy asked, finally.

“It was hard for him, because of his problem.” Grant said, “But he worked a bit - he marked exam papers, things like that. And he was a teacher for a year at his old school.”

“Hogwarts.” Teddy said, fondly.

“Right.” Grant nodded. “But I can’t tell you much about that. He kept it separate, he could be very private.”

“You’re telling _me_ ,” Teddy snorted, shaking his head, “I was raised by my gran - mum’s mum - so I know plenty about her. The only ones who really knew dad are my godfather and other people who fought in the war. I mean, how could I not even know where he grew up?! He’s such a mystery…”

“Don’t blame him,” Grant said, hoping he didn’t sound too patronising, “He had a very hard time, after he lost James and Lily, and Sirius went to prison. He didn’t even like leaving the flat - I used to go on at him to branch out a bit, but like I say, he could be so stubborn. If Remus made up his mind about something, there wasn’t much you could do about it. God love him.”

He looked down quickly, tears forming again. It felt good talking about it, though, he was glad.

“Do you have any photos, maybe?” Teddy asked, hopefully.

“No, sorry,” Grant shook his head, wiping his eyes and sniffing. “They’d all be back at the flat - there was a garage, for Sirius’s motorbike, I think it’s all packed up in there still.”

“Oh,” Teddy said, “I see, so you lived with Sirius _and_ my dad?”

“Not really,” Grant shook his head, knowing he was on thin ice, “It was Sirius and Remus’s place, first. I was there while Sirius was in prison, and then… I left and came here, in ninety-five.”

“Sirius and dad were close, then? If they lived together, I mean. I knew they were friends, Harry’s told me all about the marauders.”

“They were close.” Grant said, carefully, “They loved each other very much.”

Teddy gave him a funny look. Fucking hell, this was difficult. Grant was in two minds. Did it really matter, either way? This boy knew hardly anything about his father, but did that mean he ought to be told _everything_ ? Remus might not want him to know. Though, Grant supposed, Remus had given up his say on that. _Shouldn’t have gone off and died, should ya, ya daft prick._ Grant thought, bitterly. It surprised him, that he could still be angry about it.

“You know more than you’re telling me.” Teddy said, bluntly.

Grant didn’t answer, because he knew he’d been caught out. That was his problem; he never knew when to shut up about things that weren’t his business.

“I’m sorry,” Teddy frowned, “Tell me again, how _exactly_ did you know him?”

“We lived together,” Grant said, steadily.

“Yeah, you said that, but… look, what am I missing here? You lived with him for twelve years, just the two of you?”

“Yeah, we did, but…”

“--and there was no one else, he had no other friends, or... or girlfriends?”

 _There it is,_ Grant thought, with a sinking feeling. _He’s got it._

“No.” Grant said. He met Teddy’s eye properly, “He didn’t need anyone but me. And I didn’t need anyone but him. Understand?”

“I…” Teddy looked away, his eyes darting about, chasing thoughts.

“Look, kid, it’s really not my place, I didn’t know your dad at the end, I don’t know how things changed for him, or how he met your mum, or any of that. Who knows what went on after he lost Sirius, I mean---”

“Wait, _Sirius_?! Sirius and my dad?”

 _Bugger._ “Yeah,” Grant said, apologetically, “That’s right. Since they were kids.”

“Merlin.” Teddy rubbed the back of his neck. “This is… I mean, Harry never told me any of this - he’s my godfather.”

“Probably didn’t know,” Grant shrugged, “Like I said, Remus was very private.”

There wasn’t any excuse for it. This had always been the problem with Remus, too many different faces. If you asked a hundred people who knew Remus to describe him you’d probably come away thinking they were talking about a hundred different people. Sirius had probably had a completely different boyfriend to Grant. And the man who married Teddy's mother… well, who knew? Grant really felt for the kid. He wished there was something he could do. Something to help him feel closer to his father. Remus deserved to be known.

“The flat in London,” Grant said, suddenly, “You’d better have it. The garage, too. I don’t need it,  I'll give you the address. It's in my name, but... you take the keys.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Sell it, or keep it, whatever you like.” Grant said, keen on the idea now. He’d been hanging onto it for sentimental reasons, but he never planned to return. Remus’s son ought to have it, that was right; that was proper.

He went in his pockets for the keys, and scribbled down his name and two addresses on the back of an old receipt, “There - that’s the flat - might be some magic on it, I’ve no idea, maybe take someone with you… and that’s me - Grant Chapman-Scott, in case you need me to do any legal stuff. Though I s’pose not, eh, you lot have your own system.”

“Yeah… Look, are you sure?”

“He’d have liked you to have it,” Grant insisted, “Honestly. It was never mine. And he had a lot of happy memories there. He really did.”

They got up to part ways, shortly after that. Teddy shook his hand again - he was so polite and well-mannered, Grant thought Remus would get a real kick out of that.

“Can I… er… can I stay in touch?” He asked, shyly.

“Yeah,” Grant answered, surprised, “If you like. No owls though.”

Teddy laughed, “I’ve got a phone, don’t worry. Thank you for talking to me.”

“Sorry for the nasty shock.”

“Oh, no! I mean… It’s a surprise, but not a nasty one. Actually, it’s nice. He feels a bit more real, now. I had this tortured war hero idea in my head…”

“Oh, he was that, too,” Grant chuckled.

They both smiled at each other, and Teddy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. They looked green-brown again.

“He'd have liked the hair,” Grant said, suddenly. “He'd have loved you all over, but he'd have thought the hair was very cool.”

Teddy’s eyes brightened a bit, and he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks, Grant. It was nice to meet you.”

He walked away, and Grant watched him, and for a moment he let himself pretend. _Oh my darling._ He thought, _I don't half bloody miss you._

* * *

_One month later..._

“Dad! Dad! Look at what I drew!”

“Grant? Where did I leave my keys?”

“Oi, dad, can me and Jon go down the beach?”

“Bloody hell, you lot, give me a minute…” Grant closed the front door behind himself. He wasn’t annoyed, though. He was home - it was loud and messy, and crazy, but it was his.

He accepted the picture from Kieron first - of a big hairy looking animal with sharp teeth. It was smiling and reading a book. “Wow!” He said, kissing the top of Kieron’s head, “Another work of genius! Straight on the fridge, I reckon… I’ve got your keys, babe, sorry, left mine at work.”

He tossed the car keys at Marcus as he entered the kitchen, then addressed Atif, “You can go to the beach, but be back before it’s dark, and _no trouble_ , hear me?” He gave the two teenagers a stern look. They promised, and ran upstairs to get ready.

“Cup of tea?” Marcus called.

“My hero!” Grant slumped onto the sofa, exhausted.

“There was some post for you - it’s on the coffee table.”

Grant sat up, and leaned over to pick up the cardboard box sitting on the table on top of all of Kieron’s discarded masterpieces, Jon’s geography coursework and six months worth of newspapers. The name and address was handwritten, but Grant didn’t recognise it. Maybe the bicycle helmet he’d ordered for Kieron, but it was a bit heavy for that.

He tore it open haphazardly, and then gasped when he saw inside. Photographs. Pictures he hadn’t seen in years and years - some he’d forgotten altogether.

They were all a bit of a jumble - big and small, black and white and colour, some still in the envelope from Boots’ photo counter. A little note was neatly folded on top, written in dark green ink,

_Grant -_

_I found these at the flat, there were a few I thought you’d like. There are records, too - Dad had good taste!_

_You were right, he had a lot of happy memories here. It looks like you did, too, and it felt unfair to keep everything._

_Best wishes,_

_Teddy Remus Lupin._

Grant’s eyes welled up as he sifted through all the photos. They were like treasure. There was him in his football kit, when he'd played on that London team - Remus had taken it, to make fun of him mostly. Grant was sticking two fingers up at the camera, laughing. Another photo was of their living room right before a demo, all of the old socialist crowd leaning over placards with poster paints, and Remus, coming in from the kitchen with a tea tray, giving that wry smile, head down. One Grant remembered taking on his way to get the photos developed - he'd needed to use up the last one in the camera roll, and was standing outside the flat. He called up to Remus, sitting half out of the windowsill above, smoking a cigarette. In the picture Remus was peering down at him, fag between his lips, eyebrow raised. Pure sarcasm.

There were christmas trees and birthday cakes and walks through Regents park, Grant's university graduation, and even a lazy Sunday morning in bed. And every face Remus had ever had. The gravity of him, and the lightness of him.

Grant shook his head, wiped his face on his sleeve, and called out,

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“Babe, come here, I want to show you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Really glad I wrote this, it was a nice way to let go.


End file.
